


Oh, Reverend Shane is Preaching to You Now, Boy

by StarDrifter759



Series: The Guy Gospel [1]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Shane Walsh Lives, Time Skips, Unrealistic Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarDrifter759/pseuds/StarDrifter759
Summary: It all started in room 450 of King County Hospital. Shane knew that somehow all this bullshit started in that fucking room.





	1. Soap-Opera Worthy Drama

**Author's Note:**

> So uh... This is super fucking rough. Normally I have things a little more together than this. But decided to post this vague ass intro to this notion that I had, and well... here we are. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think and if you want this to continue. It started in my head as basically just Shane/Daryl porn and then they had to go and develop past that, but I've barely had a second to be able to write, so here we go. I thought maybe posting something would motivate me. We'll see I guess

Walsh had caught him staring. 

It was just another day in the neighborhood as far as life after the rising was concerned. The dead still ruled the world. Metropolises were basically death camps. The humdrum little quarry camp Merle insisted they were gonna rob eventually was grinding away at its usual soap-opera worthy drama. And Daryl ignored it all. Sitting by the little fire pit he and Merle had dug near their tent he let the noise become ambient sound. Like having a tv on in the background as he pulled the skin off the young eastern cottontail one of his snares had caught. 

The crunch of boots on gravel drew his attention. Or more accurately, the gait pattern of that crunch did. 

Walsh. 

Checking the rainwater basins. 

Daryl had resolved to stop trying to not watch the man. It had backfired spectacularly anyway, every other sense becoming hyper aware of the former deputy’s presence instead. Now he would just try to keep his body lax and eyes surreptitious enough to keep Merle – and everyone else – ignorant of his gaze as it raked over Shane’s powerful form. 

The flaw in his brilliant plan – the flaw he didn’t account for – was Walsh’s impressive situational awareness. As the hunter took in the flex of capable musculature in motion, displayed by the other mans sweat damp shirt; the former deputy, apparently aware of eyes on him, did a quick sweep. When Daryl looked back to Shane’s face, brown eyes were already locked on blue.

Like prey sensing danger Daryl froze. Even the air in his lungs stilled, heart constricting, as he waited for the inevitable explosion. 

… That never came.

Walsh had caught him staring. Had no doubt noticed the appreciative quality to the blue eyes tracing the hard lines of his body. There was no misconstruing that look. 

But the handsome face hadn’t shifted expression. His brow didn’t furrow, lips didn’t twist, eyes didn’t darken. In fact, he just seemed to absorb Daryl for a moment, taking in the locked limbs and expression, flicked a quick glance toward an oblivious Merle, and then continued on with his task, blithe as can be. 

And still Daryl sat frozen, not really understanding what had just happened. He had just been caught eyeing a good-ole-boy-cop, by said good-ole-boy-cop… and nothing had happened.

The fuck?

If anyone before this exact moment had asked him about Walsh’s orientation - which they wouldn’t - and he actually deigned to answer - which he wouldn’t - he would have sworn on his damn crossbow that the man was straight. Appearances really can be deceiving it seems, because there had been no disgust. No active interest either - not really surprising given Housewife A seemed to be doing a bang-up job keeping the man’s dick wet - but that neutral response made it fairly clear that Walsh had had male bed partners before. 

Well shit. 

Daryl didn’t know what to do with that information. His own sexual history was minimal, and what was there was spotty as hell and existed only through a drunken haze. He’d realized around seventeen that the female form wasn’t the only one he was attracted to. And as far as same sex experiences go, he’d only had three. Always when Merle was locked up; in bars and towns he’d never visit again, and he’d never gone farther than getting blown in a dingy bar bathroom. Yeah, that’s right. He’d never even returned the favor; like a jackass. 

Not that that was something he necessarily felt guilty over. Just working up the courage to show his face in a scene like that – spitting on a lifetimes worth of homophobic lessons – was no mean feat. And somehow handing over any amount of control was something he couldn’t do with just anyone. That had taken awhile to parse, because he’d realized that he actually did want someone who could dominate him, but wouldn’t abuse that position or Daryl’s trust. Part of the appeal of a man was someone who could push him – someone he could push – and not damage. That wasn’t something you found with just anyone. The sheer level of trust required for that… Fuckin’ hard to come by. 

Which brought him back to Walsh. A damn fine, dominant asshole if he’d ever seen one. But one that looked out for people who weren’t his own. He’d founded this damn camp, and taken everyone in, given them places at the end of the world. No one had made the man do that. No one could have. And now that man knew Daryl’s most closely guarded secret. 

Swallowing heavily, Daryl got back to work. Damn rabbit wasn’t gonna skin itself. 

\--+--

Three weeks later, Daryl again found himself contemplating Walsh. You know what they say, comfort in the familiar and all that. Also, the more things change the more they stay the same. Ah colloquialisms. Such a comfort, at times like these, when the wine and whisky just were not working fast enough. 

Merle was gone. For real this time. Alive or not the likelihood of ever seeing him again was slim to none. He hadn’t really had a chance to process that. Now that he did, sitting in an air-conditioned room in the basement of the CDC, which he had all to himself, he found that he really didn’t want to. It was… too monumental. Merle – and his breezing in and out – had always been Daryl’s constant. His only real constant anyway. 

So Merle was gone – again – the world was still shit, and Daryl was stuck with the group he was supposed to have robbed with the reason his brother was gone and the man he had been lusting after. Joy. So this is what being fucked feels like. He wasn’t a fan. Being kicked in the fuckin’ balls felt better than this. 

What in Satan’s white-hot pussy was he supposed to do now? 

Bring bottle to lips; drink. Repeat.

Goddamn dumb dead bastards. The world was always shit. But at least it used to have rules, and easily understood consequences. He may as well be a newborn colt trying out his legs for the first time. Trying to stand and wobbling all to hell before falling back on his ass… again. 

Bring bottle to lips; drink. Repeat.


	2. Best Kind of High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I didn't give this a read-through. Hopefully it makes sense, and you enjoy some ShanexDaryl action.

Shane’s fingers dug into his jaw as the other man spoke, making sure he had Daryl’s full attention. “I’m gonna give you a safe-word Daryl. Just to be cautious, ‘cause I know you’ve never been with someone like me before.” A lube slicked finger breached, as if to punctuate his last statement. “How about ‘bow’? That work?” 

“It’s a crossbow dumbass.” Daryl gasped against the sudden fissure of pleasure as the wicked finger found his prostate.

“I know,” Shane’s smile came through in his voice. “But we want a word that’s short and sweet, easy to remember. Think you can do that, Daryl?”

“The hell for?” He was feeling obstinate. 

“To give you an out. See, I’m not feeling very gentle,” A second finger joined the first. “Now I’m pretty sure you don’t want that anyway, but you also don’t actually know what you’re asking for. So if at anytime you want me to stop or back off, say ‘bow,’ and I’ll stop; no harm, no foul, no questions asked. You hear me? It’s your magic word. Stop, no, and don’t, mean not a damn thing in here. In fact, I kina liked being begged.” Daryl groaned against the filthy words and scissoring action stretching him out. “So, if I start pushing where you don’t want to go, what do you say?”

“Bow.”

“If I start to hurt you more than you want to be hurt, what do you say?”

“The hell you mean more than I wanna be hurt?”

Shane chuckled darkly.

“We both know you got drunk and came to me for a reason. Answer the question, Daryl.”

“Bow,” he panted.

“If at anytime, for any reason, you want this to be over, what do you say?”

“Bow.” Fuck he was hard. 

“Good. Any questions?” Shane’s voice was low and filthy in his ear. 

“Yeah, you gonna fuck me or spend all night talking about it?” A third finger breached.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Daryl scoffed.

“Nah man, I’ve got a temper. But I’m plenty patient. Would you have preferred a different idiom? How about good things come to those who wait, huh?” 

Walsh - the bastard - chose that moment to stimulate his prostate. Daryl could only moan in response, chin dropping to his chest. Fuck that felt good; so goddamn good. Jesus Christ. He was not gonna last. Hadn’t really even started yet and he already knew he was gonna be a damn puddle in minutes… if he was lucky. 

“Shane,” he groaned desperately, before throwing his head back and gasping at the unbelievable pleasure. 

“Get on your knees.” The fingers withdrew with the words. Daryl shuddered at the growl that vibrated into his ear and complied. The rug scratching at his knees only served to heighten the anticipation. 

“Bend forward.” A lube-slicked hand pressed between his shoulder blades, guiding him down to the couch. 

“Shit,” he whimpered breathlessly, raising his arms to bracket his head on the cushions. Behind him Shane chuckled again, eliciting a shiver from Daryl as large callused hands pet down his back. 

A nose nudged at his hairline, whisky scented breath caressing his skin. “Ready Dixon?” 

“The hell man, we gonna do this or what?”

Shane’s body heat withdrew from Daryl’s back; hands braced on his hip and shoulder respectively as the blunt head of Walsh’s cock pressed against, and then sank into, his body. Daryl gasped, fingers clawing at the cushions as his jaw dropped open, releasing a groaned “Oh fuck,” as Shane’s pelvis came to rest against him, now fully seated in his body. 

“Yeah, that’s the notion.” 

Smart-ass, never quite made it out of his mouth as the other man began rolling his hips. Not thrusting yet, but the movement did cause the cock inside him to shift with the motion. Daryl fucking whimpered at the feeling, burying his head in the cushions; hips jerking as Shane’s cock moved over his prostate. 

“Yeah?” Shane’s voice was breathless in a way Daryl would never forget, his own cock jerking at the sound before he moaned in response. Fuck, yeah. 

Daryl’s thought echoed in Shane’s voice, “Fuck yeah. You ready, man?”

Pretty damn positive that he’d already answered that question, Daryl opted to press back against Shane, rolling hips as he did, in lieu of repeating himself. A rumbling groan and “Yeah, you’re ready” came in response before Shane started to thrust. 

Powerful, deep thrusts speared his body. And damn if it wasn’t the best feeling he’d ever had, better than his best high. Gasps and moans tore from his throat without permission. A small voice in the back of his mind told him he sounded like a bitch in heat; a thought that should have shamed him - would have shamed him - if this weren’t the best kind of high. And if it didn’t sound so fucking hot chorused with Shane’s own vocalizations and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. 

The hand on his shoulder shifted to the back of his neck, pressing Daryl further into the cushions as the hand on his hip encouraged his pelvis to tilt. Daryl turned his face to yell into the cushions as Shane’s cock ruthlessly pounded into his prostate.

“There it is.”

Daryl couldn’t even think of a smartass comment much less vocalize one.

Shane moved faster, hips driving harder. Animalistic sounds and smacks of sweaty skin filled the room – the smell of sex rising. 

Loving every second of it and now desperate to cross that peak, Daryl brought an arm down from the couch and started in on his own cock. 

“Yeah, that’s it. You gonna cum for me? Gonna cum on my cock? Yeah, you are.” The thrusts came faster, harder, Shane’s cock ruining his ass as they raced for release. 

Daryl felt the flood, warmth pooling in his stomach, tingles reaching down to his toes as his balls drew up; semen coated the couch, the floor, and his hand in warm spurts. 

“Yeah, that’s it, yeah!” Shane’s voice was breathless, strained, as he slammed his hips into Daryl’s, rolling them as he rode out his own orgasm. They stayed slumped together, panting, for a few moments before Shane pulled free of his body. Daryl heard a belt rattle and quiet footsteps before silence. 

A few blissful seconds was all he had before everything caught up with him. His head was swimming with liquor and serotonin; post-orgasmic tremble shot with a nameless anxiety quaking through his body; steadily escalating pain making itself known in his ass.

Fuck… had he really just done this? Enjoyed every second of being manhandled by Shane’s stronger body? Gotten off from a cock up ass? Shit, if Merle could see him now he’d fuckin’ disown his fairy of a brother, Christ. This was the last straw for mixing whisky and wine. Never again. 

Now it was his turn to find his pants and bail before liquor and all the stupid shit that followed came back via his esophagus. Bracing his hands on the couch, Daryl flinched as he moved one leg to plant a foot on the ground. Fuck, he could feel that. When Shane was going to town on his ass all he’d felt was the pleasure, but now the pain was making itself know. He’d definitely be limping on his Walk of Shame (damn that it wasn’t the next morning, he was NOT waiting on Shane to kick him out) back to his room. 

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you doin’?” Daryl flinched again, this time in surprise as warm damp hands settled firmly on his shoulders.

“Wha?” Came his oh-so-elegant response. Wasn’t his fault. He was surprised is all. Only person that ever came back after they left was Merle. And still, wasn’t like that was immediately anyway. 

“I was just warming up a rag to clean you up with. The lack of condom makes this kinda messy, yeah? Here,” strong hands guided him down to a cot on his stomach, a warm, damp rag swiped up his thighs. “You should stay here. I aint one for pillow talk and figure you aren’t either but you’re better off staying put so I’ll switch rooms with ya, yeah?” 

A blurry Shane, with head cocked, a distant voice, saying his name. Daryl? 

 

\--+--

 

Daryl really wished that groaning his way into consciousness, and wondering what in the Sam Hill he had done the night before wasn’t such a familiar start to any given day. If he was a pussy he’d whimper. As it was, inventory was a necessity. 

Headache? Check.

Nauseated? Check.

Dehydrated? Check.

Sore all over? Chec… wait, no… Sore in ass? Goddamn check. Everywhere else, though… And then it all came flooding back. 

Getting pissed on whiskey and wine, and ending up in Walsh’s room with the intention to do something about that lust he’d been carrying around. Walsh, storming in freshly showered; bottle of his own in hand, dangerous glint in his eye. Even as wasted as he was, Daryl had too much hard-earned experience to not recognize when someone was feeling dangerous. But he was wasted and frustrated enough that he’d instead focused on the expanse of skin exposed by the deputy’s open shirt. 

“That what you’re here for, Dixon? Get laid?” 

Daryl, prone to outbursts when drunk, had shot back, “Aint like Lori is wetting your dick anymore.”

Before he knew it he was slammed against a wall, Shane’s body pressed to every line of his, lips brushing his ear as he spoke. “No, she aint.” 

Then they were kissing; a brutal thing of teeth, tongues, and lips. Then undressing, then… 

No. no, no, no, no, no, no, no. 

Shane had taken off his shirt. Had fucked him from behind. Had traced his hand up Daryl’s spine and braced himself against it. He’d seen the scars. The scars that no one had seen, shit, Merle hadn’t even seen and they were blood! 

Cracking open dry eyes, Daryl blearily looked where Shane had been crouched the night before, and found a bottle of water and aspirin. He blinked in surprise. Damn. He hadn’t expected that.


End file.
